Amor caecus est
by crankedxburned
Summary: Assuming Ginny Weasley was in the trio's year, in their sixth and seventh years, this is the story of two isolated stars crossing paths in the universe and what comes of longing and overthinking and taking risks...love is blind. Language and sex. SS/GW
1. Chapter 1

**Keeping true to every other detail in the story, let's assume Ginny is in Harry, Ron, and Hermione's year and is a year older than she actually is. Starts in _Half-Blood Prince _and carries over into _Deathly Hallows. _****Rated "M" for language and **hex******uality**—do you get it? _Hex_uality? Do you see? **Ah, well.**

**I claim no ownership of any part of Harry Potter.**

**_November, sixth year. Ginny._**

The thing was, you see, he's never seemed _evil; _not to me.

He is austere in those robes that sweep behind him, his black, hanging hair surprising against the stark pale skin.

But I feel as though I see him clearly.

Truthfully, I find his cutting honesty to be refreshing. The majority of these adults—people we're meant to look up to, take after—just stumble through their days, saving face and biding time with their families and jobs.

This is why I've felt this respect for him, lately, this strange curiosity about him. I haven't ever really cared what my professors' private lives are like up until. . .

It's not only his blunt, observant honesty. Not just that. He sets himself apart from the other adults only by being himself; he prefers his solitude and I've found, lately, that I do too. I've begun to prefer being alone to being amongst friends. I don't even know that I can call them friends anymore, for I'm singular in my thoughts and feelings amongst my age group. Even Hermione hasn't been able to help me with this.

"Ginny, I don't mean to sound strange, but—" Hermione had fumbled apologetically when I tonelessly expressed this emptiness of spirit to her, "—are you maybe—a little depressed?"

In that second I knew she couldn't be of help to me in this matter. Clever as she was, though, she must have seen my face fall in disappointment. She added quickly, "There's nothing wrong with it, Ginny, nothing unnatural. It happens to the best of us. I've felt upset before, too. But you mustn't let hopelessness get you down."

But she was wrong. It's not so much depression as seeing things for how they are.

Oh, I am lucky, I know that much. I am pure-blooded in times when so many aren't. It's funny how you'd think being pure-blooded would come along with wealth and power, but being born with those things is the same as being born beautiful—some people are, some people aren't. You have it or you do not, and rarely do you become them if you are.

At any rate, this is sixth year, and this is what it's like. It's come around November, now, and after I've spent all this summer reading philosophy up in my room when I haven't been spending time with Harry, Ron, and Hermione—Flamel, Aristotle, Agrippa—I've come back to school as though with new eyes.

Or a new girl.

But that's it, then, isn't it? I'm not a girl anymore, am I? I was born in the mid-spring, and here it is fall. When I turn seventeen in a few months, I'm a woman. Odd to think. And I still have seventh year after that.

But anyway, life here is definitely different than at home. I can't see why I used to long to go home when I was younger.

The silence is uncanny here. When I'm out on the grounds by myself, rain or sunshine, it stretches for these long periods, punctuated only by sounds from nature around me.

I can't help but think of silence at home—a rare ten or fifteen minutes of quiet before a bang would issue forth from the twins' room, or Ron's radio would crackle to life, or the hens would cackle, or mum would need a hand with dinner, or any kind of noise makeable by six other inhabitants of the house. Thankfully Bill and Charlie have been gone for years; I can't imagine how much more cramped and unthinkable it would be with two more people living there too.

Yes, I've been more aware of the fact that lately, I've come to like my share of quiet and especially come to favor solitude.

And now I see that among no one else I have found—even Hermione loves spending time with Harry and Ron over books—_he_ does, too.

And this is the revelation I'm having here in the shade of a tree by the lake, a distance away from where some Ravenclaw girls are frolicking. It's November. The breeze blows colder, threatening of what's in store this winter. The lake ripples. People are happy.

And I'm unraveling.

**More planned.  
Review if you want it to go more quickly ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter is told from the third-person point of view, as it'll always be when Ginny herself isn't narrating.**

This time last year, Severus Snape had less problems, if such a thing can even be said.

He was still a Death Eater-turned-spy then (in fact, he has been so for years). He was still bitingly insulting. He was still abhorred by the tedium of people and their predictability and their shortcomings. He still preferred potions, which were measurable and controllable. He still pushed back the tide of thoughts every single day about the murder of the woman he loved.

But this time last year, these two issues weren't dominant parts of his life—the first, namely, being the prophecy swirling around his dead love's son and the Dark Lord. It is only Dumbledore and he, Snape, who have gone poking their wands secretly into things so that the Dark Lord might not seize the Wizarding world (and Snape could care less about the Wizarding world let alone the world; it is only because the woman he loved _died for _her son that he is doing this.)

The second, of course, is her.

If she hadn't taken Defense Against the Dark Arts, this wouldn't be happening. Or perhaps if _he_ wasn't _teaching _Defense Against the Dark Arts now that Dumbledore had gotten Slughorn for potions, this wouldn't be happening.

But in any case, it is happening, and he would be sleeping even less than he normally does if he hadn't been drinking more and taking draughts to induce sleep.

This is too much.

It had started on the first day, _the first day._ She came into class with the rest of the Gryffindor sixth years and from the moment he caught sight of the curtain of auburn hair, something quietly began unfreezing inside him. He forced the name that sprang to mind from his thoughts.

He had leaned against his desk then, surveying the sorry lot of the sixth years bent over their desks, scribbling away after he'd given instructions, and thinks that she'll become just another faceless student in a day or two. Perhaps her hair changed over the summer since last year, and that's why she stuck out now—something like that.

But she didn't.

As the days in the first month passed, she came into class one of the only girls who didn't whisper with friends when they had quiet moments or they thought he couldn't hear them (for the record the students would be shocked for what they knew of how good he was at overhearing secret things). She turned in her work and it was legible and thought-out. She performed in class and was teachable, yet never asking questions or volunteering.

All he knew was that she was the youngest of seven, preceded by all those Weasley boys before her, and that he had thought her the dead woman he loved, Lily Evans, the moment he caught sight of her.

He had had a fleeting worry that, should she flounder and prove herself untalented in Defense Against the Dark Arts—for she had always been passable at potions, if he recalled correctly—he wouldn't be able to criticize her, to snap and belittle and bite.

She proved him wrong again and was better at Defense Against the Dark Arts than he recalled her being at potions; noticeably so. She was better than nearly everyone in the class, though he didn't delude himself thinking her friendship with Potter and Granger had nothing to do with this. No matter. Skills were skills, were they not?

Towards the end of September, he tried to find fault with her by taking action, not just observing—he called on her when he saw her gazing off into the distance at some spot over his shoulder to see how she would stumble and deny trying to answer.

Instead, she squinted down at her paper and recited back to him the answer he had in mind.

And then, earlier today, she packed her things more slowly than anyone else. Everyone else had filed out by the time she buttoned her bag closed.

"Sir?" she said tentatively from behind him. He had deliberately turned away from the desks to rifle among a trunk of Dark artifacts from the lesson.

"Yes?" he replied, not turning around.

"Um, well—I've been trying to look into the complexities and intricacies of basic foundations of Dark spells, but I wanted to know if you thought. . ." She kept on talking as he finally turned around to face her, but he had stopped listening even though she was still speaking plainly as day. In one sentence she had proved herself more grammatically advanced than an alarming majority of her peers, and had just asked his opinion on something that wasn't even adolescent and trite.

He realized she had stopped talking and uttered, "I beg your pardon?"

Slightly uncertain now she repeated, "I've taken interest in the principles of Dark arts, and wanted to know what you thought a good starting point for learning would be."

Trying to look straight into her eyes—which was hard because hers were locked on his, unblinking—and not take in the pale skin or deep red hair, he answered, "I would recommend books alone to begin with. I'm sure you know the Dark arts require a certain. . .knowledge. . .prior to action." Which was the truth. At least he managed a proper answer.

"What books, sir?" she had continued, pulling a quill and a piece of parchment from her bag. She leaned over the paper, hand poised to scribble down titles, and when he was unable to recall any she glanced up at him and their eyes met.

He had had nothing to say and for some reason he heard himself say, as if the listener was a totally different man than the speaker, "I have something you might find helpful. . .if you were so inclined."

For a moment, then, after he'd said that, something flashed quickly behind her eyes that fascinated him. Fascinating that life could revive a glimpse of the only person you had ever loved, and more fascinating still that after all this time, thinking himself a dead man walking, he felt some stirring in him as her eyes had seemed to search his for something in that second.

Then the moment had passed and she was smiling at him, and if he weren't so surprised that a student was smiling at him instead of shrinking under his gaze, he would've been further surprised by the fact that she was asking for more knowledge in his area of expertise.

"Yes, please," she had said graciously, and added, her serious face growing animated, "I like the fluidity of Defense Against the Dark Arts. There's something about it that's bigger than potions, bigger than the history of magic. Do you know what I mean?" She had looked at him, hopefully, honestly asking his opinion before adding almost to herself, "Of course you do, what am I saying, you're a teacher!" Amusement flickered momentarily through him at her answering her own question—and realizing the stupidity of it on her own and correcting herself—before she interrupted his amusement by calling from the door, "Thank you, Professor Snape!" and the old wooden door creaked shut behind her on her way out and she was gone.

That was only this morning, and this is now, hours later. It's still bothering him.

He has the book he knows she will find interesting—if she really is serious about discerning the innards of philanthropic magic from Dark magic—and it is sitting on the desk in his office in front of him.

Next to that is the Firewhisky and a glass.

He debates drinking it tonight and decides he's going to determine if the situation really calls for him to get drunk tonight.

Yes, this time last year, Severus Snape had two less problems, and this second problem is living and breathing and traipsing through his days right now, because even though he gave up the ghost long ago, now there is a living siren haunting him.

And what scares him most of all is that though she bears some resemblance to Lily Evans, it is not the _could-have-been_'s that plague him, but the distinct _could-be_ who he cannot avoid noticing and setting apart from the others. She is obviously intelligent and obviously enjoys learning and is visibly different than the other students. He is horrified—and yes, though he has faced death and the Dark Lord and Dark magic constantly, this is worse than those—because he wants to know more about this girl and her alone. He knows how to handle Dark anything—but closing his eyes he considers the fact that not for years have the scent and smile and eyes of someone been haunting him. Lily lingered in his dreams and around corners for years up until recently, and here when he's finally nailed shut the coffin door of the impossible and accepted his fate, _some_thing in the universe has tilted.

Does the situation call for Firewhisky?

Not a could-have-been, not dead, but a could-be, alive and immorally too young and in his presence daily.

Severus Snape reaches for the bottle and proceeds to get drunk safely within the privacy of his private chamber.

**Any comments, criticism, or advice is appreciated. Reviews are my oxygen; help me breathe! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Ginny's pov.**

You know those shitty, horrid days?

Like this morning, when it started.

Woke up later than everyone else in the girls' sixth years' dormitory—no one thought to wake me, of course—dashed downstairs with my hair still damp, didn't even have the chance to put makeup on so I'm sure I looked absolutely hideous, and realized I'd fallen asleep with the homework I'd been doing at around midnight tucked up into bed beside me.

So I've already gone though a hellish hour of Herbology, a tawdry History of Magic period—didn't have the homework to turn in—and now I'm climbing up the stairs to Defense looking like a lunatic, no doubt, because I look like hell, slept horribly, and can't deal with the idea of publicly being berated by Professor Snape today for not finishing the twelve-inch write-up we started in class yesterday. I might also mention class started five minutes ago.

I get to the classroom, greeted by the closed, heavy door.

As quietly as I can, I grasp the handle and pull it slowly open.

A tremendous creaking groan issues from the hinges.

Every head in the room turns to look at me, Professor Snape even stopping what he's saying to fix me with a look. I don't take time to see if it's just an annoyed look or an outright glare but instead shoot into my desk and begin tearing what I need out of my bag.

Class blissfully goes on and it's an hour of something I'll actually _use _when I leave here. Will I ever come across a Snargaluff whose pod I'll have the desperate need to extricate? Will there come a moment when I need to know about goblin civil rights movements?

As much as I'm sure I will—_not_—what with whatever's going on with Harry and Voldemort and the things going on in the Ministry, I don't doubt I'll ever have to jinx someone. Or curse someone, even. Or protect myself, most importantly.

I guess to come outright with it, I like Defense Against the Dark Arts, and we've never learned more since this year if anyone would actually pay attention besides Hermione and me.

And then, of course, class is over too soon and there's a mad rush for the door because it's lunch time and no one I know cares to spend more time in a class with Snape than educational requirements decree.

_But I guess that's why I don't have friends anymore, do I?_

The thought, unbidden, pops into my mind as I'm shoving the last of my things into my bag and it makes me look up in wonder. Not that I want to spend more time with him, obviously, but just that I can't seem to find anything in common with anyone anymore.

"Miss Weasley?"

I realize I've lifted my head in wonder and proceeded to stare intently at the chalkboard—which has already been magically erased of the complex diagram from today. Another point for Ginny Weasley, the girl who went from being known as the pretty sister of the Weasley boys to the nutter who keeps to herself.

"I have the information you requested," he says, and I have to give my head a little shake to clear out the debris littering my thoughts.

"Oh, the book?" I ask, interest starting. Books don't talk back or ask why you haven't been yourself as of late. Maybe books even know you are who you are and that you don't so much change as you either deceive yourself or become truer to yourself.

Or maybe I am just crazy.

"Thank you," I say, going forward for the black and battered copy of it he hands to me and tucking it away in my bag. Then instantaneously I realize the strangeness of a student thanking Snape for something.

"Before you leave—" he adds, and I think, _Oh, no, what now?_ "—past issues as well as protocol require me to ask what exactly you need this book for."

"Sir?"

"At the risk of being more informative than a student ought to have access to, it was removed. But—" he looks out the window at the grounds. "—curiosity has a longer shelf-life than most things. . .and curiosity often strays off the track of honesty."

"I wouldn't have stolen it," I interject, but he holds up a hand.

"I didn't think you would. Be that as it may, I will throw caution to the winds by telling you that I am not at a liberty to share information like this with someone inexperienced as yourself." At my silence, he adds, "I think it wise that you not share this book with anyone else. Your—friends—might not find this to be their idea of. . .normal."

A smile automatically turns up my mouth and I reply, actually amused, "They can't think me any less normal than they do already, sir, but I won't share it. Thank you."

"Ginevra—" he adds as I'm almost out the door and I stop in surprise, wondering how long it's been since someone's called me that and what I've done to warrant him calling me my first name instead of last. "Your write-up?"

_Shit._

Gritting my teeth against him inevitably taking the book I want so desperately to read back momentarily, I mumble, "I didn't do it, sir."

He's silent.

"I have it, I mean—I did about half, but—it's really sloppy; I didn't do much more than ramble on and I'd rather just keep it, if you don't mind, save you the reading. . ." Eventually I do the wise thing and shut up, peeking up from examining my shoes closely.

He stares at me, an eyebrow raised, and I say brightly, "Right, well, then, when's good for you?" because for some reason at his expression and the silence and the emptiness of the room besides us I feel the need to say something, anything. And because it's inevitable with his policy—no homework, detention.

The eyebrow descends and then he says slowly, as if I'm insinuating something awful, "I beg your pardon?" with that perfect enunciation of his.

"Detention?" I supply. "I've already had the most tawdry day and, really, I'd quite honestly rather do something useful here than be subject to another Saturday night in the common room."

"I think not," he says, looking at me like I'm something strange.

"Oh," I say, surprised. "But I didn't—"

"Miss Weasley, are you asking me for detention?" he asks, something strange reclining in his eyes.

"N. . .no," I answer, realizing I practically just did.

"Then you are dismissed," he replies, and turns to go. "Do remember to keep the book private, please."

"Thank you, sir." Before I can make a further fool of myself, I leave, several thoughts competing for space in my mind.

The first's the matter of the fact that I would really rather have detention than spend Saturday night with everyone. Detention would at least prove more fruitful; in the morning I'd probably have gained _some_thing instead of waking up after a night of gossip and people hooking up and drinking firewhisky on the sly.

And then there's the second matter that's bothering me more still. Not so much the little flutter in my stomach when he called me back by my real name—_Ginevra_—but that I don't have detention. If I'd been Harry—well, if I'd been Harry, I probably would've gotten eight detentions just for showing up—if I'd been anyone else I would've gotten one.

What've I done to warrant getting off the hook—Professor _Snape's_ hook—with a book, no less? Have the Dark Arts finally overtaken him and he's gone mad?

I certainly don't know, but seeing as I've been keen on my free-time being solitary lately, I suppose I'll be able to find out soon enough: I've still got the book he gave me and I'm dead set on reading tonight.

**This one was kind of slow, I know, but bear with me.  
Review?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Snape.**

"_I've already had the most tawdry day and, really, I'd quite honestly rather do something useful here than be subject to another Saturday night in the common room."_

That, to start. How many times has he found himself thinking the same thing?

Not necessarily another Saturday night in the common room, but he's always preferred to be by himself.

It seems strange to him that he should never take part in staff parties, never crave companionship, and never really care what was going on outside his own thoughts, the crush of memories and the future—up until now.

Even loaning her the book could potentially be bad; anything can happen, he knows. The book is anything anyone wanting to begin dabbling in the Dark arts could want to know; it even briefly mentions Horcruxes, though he doubts Ginerva Weasley will be the next Tom Riddle Jr.

A frigid breeze whips through the many towers and turrets of Hogwarts, and Severus looks out with the king's view from the Astronomy tower's top, tiny shards of the beginning of hail biting his cheeks and momentarily distracting him.

If he's honestly risking ruining everything he and Dumbledore have worked for, he's going to have to open up the coffin of what he's buried and come to terms with the skeletal state of things.

Lily Potter is dead, and even now in the midst of winter, years after it happened, as he thinks this to himself he must force the thought from his mind so her face doesn't surface in memory.

He distracts himself with the thought that at least there's Ginevra's class tomorrow and immediately he wishes he hadn't (but ironically, Lily has vanished from his immediate thoughts) but then realizes something totally different—when did he last look forward to something?

When did he honestly last look forward to someone?

He can't even think about this before something else occurs to him—when did he honestly last look forward to some_one_?

And then he thinks of how she's still a year from being an adult in the eyes of the Wizarding community—morally, years from being an adult in the eyes of a proper man—and yet who's to say who and what's moral anymore? The lines of everything are blurred. It's evident from her Patronus that the Tonks girl, the Auror, is in love with Remus, twenty years her senior.

Still bothered, still conflicted—but when is he not?—Severus notices the light snow that has begun to fall from the clouds not too high above the towers and he makes his way down the tower to his private room.

As he tries to fall asleep, he tries to ignore the grappling between sides of the argument going on within him: is this about the woman he loved, or something different for some_one_ different?

But then he thinks about why he's really still thinking about her in the first place—it isn't just that she looks hauntingly something like Lily, but more that he is intrigued by Ginevra Weasley, more astute and articulate and poised than all her brothers before her combined. Intrigued?

Right in the moments before he's about to fall asleep she leans towards him across the desk and smiles at him conspiratorially and says within the walls of his still-forming dream, her words faraway and echoing, _They can't think me any less normal than they already do, sir._

His eyes immediately open and he knows he is in trouble now.

***Review?***


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for the reviews, my loves! It really means a lot to me and I really appreciate anything anyone has to say. It makes writing this even more fun to hear from you lot.**

**Ginny's pov.**

Even if I had gotten the detention I all but asked for, it can't have been any worse than what's lurking on the agenda for tonight. Saturday night has come, alright, but what completely slipped my mind was old Slughorn's party. I can't believe I forgot what with Hermione's bemoaning her date McLaggen, the troupe of girls determined to seize Harry as their personal date and invite, and Ron's petulance about not being in the professor's in crowd at all.

The party hasn't really mattered one way or another to me, but I've got nothing else going on and I can always leave if it's that dreadful, right?

I go up by myself, bombarded with greetings and introductions to other guests by Slughorn himself, and manage to slip away to the other side of his packed, magically expanded office. I bump into Luna standing by herself near Professor Trelawney.

"Hey, Luna," I say, already feeling party-weary though I've been here naught but ten minutes.

"Hi, Ginny," she says dreamily, smiling over at me and turning misty eyes upon me. "How are you? You look lovely. Did you get a better nights' sleep than usual?"

It's funny. Everyone accuses Luna of being crazy and strange—well, maybe she's a little strange—but I've hardly met someone as perceptive and caring as her. She's so forthright with her honesty.

"I did," I say. "So how's the party? Where's Harry?"

"He's just gone to have a word with Hermione," Luna replies, taking a sip of butterbeer and handing me one. "I don't think he would ditch me though, do you? He seemed concerned."

"Why, what's up?" I ask, looking around for some kind of disturbance, but all I see are just people laughing and chatting and drinking. Despite McLaggen fumbling around like a blind mummy—looking for Hermione, no doubt—and two members of what I think might be the Weird Sisters giving some sixth years I know the old eyeball, nothing seems wrong.

"Well, it's just that Har—" Luna begins, the light of telling something interesting in her eyes, and then Filch suddenly bursts into the party like an old hobo's handbag, Draco Malfoy in hand. Luna and I watch with interest as Filch proceeds to try—and then fail—at getting Malfoy in trouble for lurking about around after curfew.

Throughout this whole debacle I look over at Harry, previously in conversation with Slughorn, and I can tell what he's thinking—what was Malfoy up to?

The party goes on after Slughorn slurs something about it being the Christmas season and it being normal for a lad to want to attend a party even if he's not invited, and Filch slopes off back to wherever he came from. But then, as Luna starts talking to me again, I notice something I didn't expect to see at all—Professor Snape seems to have come from nowhere and is standing beside Filch and Harry.

For some reason I start a little and Luna says as I slop a little butterbeer over the rim of my glass, "Oh, careful," then following my gaze she adds in her faraway voice, "That's funny. I've never thought Professor Snape seemed like the party sort. I wonder what he's talking to them about?"

"Me too," I murmur, interested by the three of them standing there for some reason. After a moment Snape and Malfoy stalk out and, puzzled, I go back to chatting with Luna.

"Oh, Harry's gone after them, I think," she says wisely, still looking after them. "Yes. Shall we go talk to—"

"_Ladies!"_ booms Slughorn from behind us so unexpectedly that a girl nearby jumps in surprise and sends a bowl of every-flavor beans flying.

Luna turns her wide doe eyes on him and says, "This is a lovely party."

He chuckles. "Not at all, my dear, not at all—but who is your date, my child?"

"Oh, he's around here somewhere," she says vaguely. "Harry Potter."

"Harry!" Slughorn practically shouts in excitement or inebriation, nearly seizing Luna in glee. "Harry! Man of the hour!"

At that moment Harry himself comes back into the party, unseen by Slughorn. He motions at me to send Luna over so that he might escape another round of being introduced by the influential by Slughorn.

"Oh, er, Luna," I say wildly, trying to think of a quick excuse to send her to him, "I think Hermione wanted to meet you at the door, do you see her over there?"

She looks towards the entrance to the office. "No, but I see Har—"

"Excellent!" I say, steering her around Slughorn and towards the door. "Tell her I say hi, would you, I'm going to get us some food."

Thankfully, she wanders over to Harry and he motions her out of my line of vision, looking worried. Did he follow Malfoy?

"And so, my dear, I must ask—" Slughorn says suddenly, still beside me, "have you considered what you might want to do when you leave here?"

I blink. "Oh. Well. . .I don't know. I've been thinking about. . .well. . .the differences between the Dark arts and beneficial magic, but I haven't given it too much thou—"

"_Have_ you?" Slughorn exclaims, then throws out an arm and seems to yank Professor Snape himself out of nowhere, looking murderously mutinous and debonair in formal attire, as if Slughorn himself forced him to dress up.

"Severus, you teach this young lady, am I correct?" Slughorn presses him tipsily, swaying a little on the spot.

Picking Slughorn's arm off him like a leaf and escaping out from under it, Professor Snape says dryly, "I teach everyone. But yes."

"And do you _know _of her career ambitions?" Slughorn continues in either a horrible mock whisper or—well, I don't know, plain drunkenness?

Professor Snape's dark eyes find mine for a moment and I smile faintly from Slughorn's behavior and this whole party as if to say, _Oh, people,_ and he seems to give me a flat look. Immediately I look back at Slughorn and Snape says with his usual eloquence, "I am unaware."

"_This _young lady is considering a career after the likes of you!" Slughorn says happily, always glad to make connections between people.

"Potions?" Snape asks, raising an eyebrow at me in vague disbelief.

"Oh, right, no," Slughorn corrects himself, reaching for another drink. "Too right you are, you only now got the Defense job. . .after all this time, I forget you were doing potions. . ." (Slughorn is unaware of Snape glowering at him momentarily.) ". . .no, this young lady is considering dabbling in the Dark arts."

Understanding lights Snape's eyes as he turns back to me. "Oh?" he says pointedly, obviously finding this party and Slughorn tedious.

"Yes!" Slughorn answers for me, slapping Snape on the back violently in camaraderie. "And you're going to be the man to help her! Why, I saw her perform the most wonderful Bat-Bogey hex on the train. . .brilliant, brilliant." He seems to spy someone more interesting than us for he says suddenly, "Ah, but I must mingle!" and abandons us for better company.

I'm left standing beside Professor Snape, a butterbeer in my hand, and even though the place is still packed and no one's paying us any mind, I feel relatively awkward standing beside him. He suddenly seems to come to the same realization too and casts a brief look at me before saying, "Good evening, Miss Weasley," and turning to go.

I stand there for a moment after he's gone and then am suddenly leaving, too, and I follow him down the hallway.

"Professor!" I call, wincing immediately and debating running away, but he stops and turns. Waits. I snatch the opportunity—_opportunity to what, Ginny?—_and catch up to him. We fall into step beside each other.

"I'm leaving, too," I say by way of explanation, and he offers no reply. "Did you enjoy the party?" I ask, using the feeblest attempt at conversation possible. I ought to be shot for so insipid a comment.

Those dark eyes slide over to meet mine as if he knows exactly what I'm up to—but how can he? _I_ don't even know what I'm up to—as he says only, "Horace would be offended if I did not show my face."

"Are you friends, sir?"

Snape looks at me almost like I'm ridiculing him by talking with him and answers only, "He was my teacher."

"He's a laugh," I say, smiling a little, then thinking of something adding, "Better that party than the detention, though, I suppose. I haven't been to one in ages worth going to. Thank you again for not giving me one."

It's strange to be with him, both of us in formal attire, the sounds of the party fading out above us, leaving together. . .

"You needn't," he says suddenly, and I look at him, puzzled, and see that he actually looks sort of surprised.

"Sir?" I ask, and it comes out sort of choked and higher-pitched than normal.

"You needn't thank me."

"The book as well," I remind him. "I've kept it safe, by the way, I've made sure no one will see it and give it a flip-through. I don't really think Lavender or anyone would go and read it, use it for firewood, maybe, but I don't think anyone's actually read a book on their on time except Hermione since that insult book about Umbridge got passed around by everyone. . ."

I come to the end of my insightful—not—speech, suddenly running out of things to say and suddenly feeling like I'm shrinking because he's watching me all of a sudden, eyes turned upon me with full attention.

My foot gives a little jerky spasm and I stumble over my own heels and bump into a suit of armor near me, which clanks angrily at me as I leap away from it, yanking my skirts closer around me like a ninny.

"Well, lovely party, suppose I'll just go to bed now. That's enough people for one weekend," I say wildly, flustered, and growing annoyed with myself for acting like this. What's going on?

"What would you," he says darkly, something like amusement dripping from each syllable, the traces of a sneer not far off, "know about _enough people_?"

My eyes roll immediately, but he isn't going to be another one to tell me that I'm still a child and need to be optimistic about the world. "More than I'd care to, but that's a sight better than being blissfully ignorant, isn't it?"

The sneer falls off his face and he says, suddenly serious, "I think you'll find knowing things brings trouble, Miss Weasley." We cross over an archway between towers, wind biting.

_I've got him now, _I think as I answer, "But to be forewarned is to be forearmed. I should rather be sleepless and informed than ignorant to the ways of the world and asleep."

He looks at me, then, and I feel almost disconcerted beneath his eyes, regarding me like he's never met me before or known my name.

"Some part of you. . ." he begins slowly, stops, then finishes, ". . .some part of you might be lost if you carry on like that."

We're quiet together for a moment and I realize we've stopped halfway between towers. "Not the better part," I reply softly, trying to be polite in my disagreement.

There's silence except for the wind and then we suddenly start walking again as if we haven't stopped (_Why did we?)_.

We come upon the hallway that leads to the Gryffindor tower and I reply automatically, the silence filling the hallway suddenly swelling. "I—thank you for talking with me. I'll see you on Monday!"

"There will be no class on Monday, Miss Weasley," he says straightaway, turning to go. "The vacation has started, if you have forgotten."

"Oh!" I say stupidly. "Right, of course. Well, then." I stand there awkwardly like a fool and he gives me another arched eyebrow before I say hastily, "Could I maybe—ask, sir—would you be willing to talk about the book with me?"

He casts me a flat look. "And what of my own time, Miss Weasley? I am not paid to counsel hopefuls of deciphering the Dark on my free time."

"Oh," I say again, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden at this denial._ But why does it bother me so?_ I take an automatic step backwards towards the Fat Lady. "Oh. Well. I'll—"

"But I think," he says tartly, "there might be time for you."

Relief incinerates my embarrassment. "Thank you, sir—Professor. It's just I don't have much else going on this break—I'm not going home—and I figured I ought to get _some_thing productive done—"

He waves a hand. "Until then, whenever that may be, Miss Weasley. Don't expect me to hang around my room waiting on your behalf, though," he adds almost venomously. "I expect you'll have to find me if you're so desirous of help."

"Right, sir, of course," I say, looking up at him looking down at me.

Silence.

He stares down at me for a second and I have to look down at the floor; it's almost like the embarrassment or some other sentiment is looking clearly upon the fact that I don't know why I'm so awkward to be standing here alone with him after coming down from the party, almost like he's my date. The thought immediately lends itself to an image of him ducking his head down and kissing me.

The minute I think it I can actually feel myself turn red and he says slowly, "Yes, well, thanks are in order for rescuing me from Horace. He insisted I attend and indeed, having had him as my potions teacher. . .I should have known what a party of his would entail."

"That's what I'm saying, sir," I say, embarrassment fading and another smile replacing it. "Forewarned is forearmed." I take this as a good note to leave on and say, "Goodnight, Professor Snape, sir."

"The same, Miss Weasley," he says behind me, and then we actually part.

But it's strange and stranger still that I sort of drift on autopilot through the common room, up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, out of my dress and into bed, where I realize the feeling I'm blanketed in is actually happiness.

True enough, I went to a party tonight, but I realize the most fun I had all night aside from Filch's brief stint and Slughorn's drunken antics was talking to Snape. And I might even feel guilty about that if I didn't feel so satisfied with my night, and if moments later surprise didn't suddenly crash over me at one detail—he essentially promised to spend time with me.

Some feeling, like a chocolate craving satiated or a race won or soaring on a broom whooshes through me and I'm grinning in spite of myself and I think to myself that I cannot wait to see him again on Monday, even if he is entirely unaware of my intentions.

***Review, my loves?* **

**TemperedRose- -Snape intitially did see some of Lily physically in Ginny (I guess he has a thing for redheads) and some of her fighting spirit, but it's Ginny's own personality that's the final straw and what is the clincher for him in terms of why he's drawn to her. She reminded him of the past, but then he discovers she truly reminds him of the future. . .could-be vs. would-be. :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi guys. I know this is terribly short and that's a shoddy excuse, but I've got midterms right now and studying is rapidly consuming my free time. I already have more chapters written for this, but I need to edit them and fix a few things first before they're here. I'll have new chapters up throughout the weekend :)**

Severus Snape is in trouble, in a word.

He makes it as far as around the corner of the hallway out of sight of the portrait that leads to the tower of Gryffindors—a place he will, hopefully, never have to set so much as a toe in—before the internal maelstrom starts.

Firstly, if Horace Slughorn hadn't been his mentor and his own potions teacher—and didn't have capable skills of his own—Severus would happily curse him blind for even throwing the party in the first place.

And then there is the matter of her.

There is nothing wrong with their talking or even their leaving the party together. There is even nothing wrong with the things they discussed (things he actually didn't mind discussing).

But then there is the matter of the Legilimency.

He had not meant to and he had not stretched it out.

He had only let her know that she had to come find him if she really wanted to discuss the book on his free time and she had said, "Right, sir, of course," and then he had realized how close he was standing to her but their eyes met and locked and it happened.

She stared up at him for whatever reason and he all but tumbled into her mind.

Images surged up straightaway as always, but not what he was expecting—

A clear afternoon on the Hogwarts grounds, the very dress she's wearing pulled on over a pale torso, the glittering interior of Slughorn's party, him lowering his face to kiss her.

Immediately he had yanked himself out of her mind.

She had said something else witty and knowing before they separated, but he was and is completely thrown. He returns to his room and sits, head in hands, trying to make sense of the mess of shards his thoughts have become.

He doesn't know why she was thinking that, and whereas had it been anyone else—anyone else—he would not have wanted to know. And it's as simple as that now he wants to know. He is actively wondering why she was thinking about that, most random and outlandish of all things to be thinking about.

Because surely, Ginevra Molly Weasley, a capable young woman, an intelligent person, not unattractive or strange in any regard, ought to have anything else in the world on her mind than a kiss between the two of them.

As soon as he thinks it he sees how stupid and blind he's been. He knew he flustered the girl; only a complete fool wouldn't see that. But that meant nothing; he could rattle any of his students with just a look, let alone action. Why should she be any different?, he'd thought.

Not so much that the girl is disconcerted—like the others—but distinctly flustered. And if he hadn't seen her bump into the suit of armor under the gaze he threw out just to gauge her reaction, he would have thought she was just as rattled as the others.

And if she hadn't stammered afterwards, the tell-tale signs of her eyes skittering anywhere but his, he would have thought this was an easily fixable nothing.

Was it a nothing, then, that his breath caught and the blood in his veins froze the moment he caught a flash of red hair and a smile in the doorway the first day of term?

His eyes sink closed.

Ginevra ought to have anything else in the world on her mind, but she is free to do as she pleases. Severus Snape, bound and sworn and promised and dark, is anything but free. And all he will have to show at the end of this awful affair set out before him is redemption for his past sins.

Redemption, and since Lily Evans, he has not cared or desired to know another living soul.

And was it a nothing, that very first day?

Nothing, indeed.

Nothing that plays before his eyes when he least expects it, the flickering highlight reel of a dress sliding over a sharply curving white hip that rolls immediately into him kissing her once, again, five times, ten.

Nothing that finds him as promised two days later on Monday, that tracks him down like he was afraid she might.

**It was short, I know.  
Give me a slap on the wrist instead of a review if you will.**


	7. Chapter 7

**I loathe midterms. (FINALS=Fuck, I Never Actually Learned Shit!) I have more already written and I shall continue to upload whenever I have time away from studies/part-time job.**

**Happy New Year, all!**

**Ginny's pov.**

If it wasn't entirely illogical and it wasn't entirely because I'm so infatuated with him and hopeful, I would almost say I could see it in his eyes too.

He's here and we're talking and I'm talking and there are definitely words coming out of my mouth—and something inside me thrills a little each time I see something I've said has made him smile faintly.

There is a vast amount of sage wisdom in his words and what he says and I can see clearly exactly why Voldemort would want someone like him. I can't help but ask him more and more about what I want to learn.

And then his answers lead me to more questions about the Dark arts themselves, different areas of the Dark arts, different reasons people support the Dark arts.

And then this leads to—

"Sir?" I say after one of the first lulls in our little chat. "Why do you love the Dark arts?"

He is quiet for so long that I wonder how complex and fascinating his answer is going to be when he says slowly, "I don't think I am in a position to answer that. . .Miss Weasley." I look at him and expect to see a sneer on his face but instead he just looks interested, like I've just dropped hints that I'm a Death Eater.

"Oh. I'm sorry." I look away.

"For what?"

Blink. "For asking that question."

"You needn't be sorry," he says, watching me closely, something between interest and concern dangling in his eyes. "I'm quite capable of answering, but propriety is outlined in my contract."

"How is it improper?" I ask immediately, curious.

The words that come out are different, slower, more considered, black, ashes. "There are grey areas to morality," he says cryptically, intentionally answering me without telling anything.

"Are there grey areas to sanity, sir?" I ask before I can stop, and then it's out there and between us on the table.

He stares at me for a second and then replies carefully, "Is your sanity in question, Miss Weasley?"

I make a gesture indicating he should forget it. "No. I suppose not."

"Do you know?"

I shake my head, confused and surprised. "Pardon?"

"Do you _know?_" At my silence, he adds, "Supposing and knowing are different."

I'm quiet. "I don't know."

I open my mouth and he interrupts, "As fascinated as I am with today's discussion—"A thrill of embarrassment runs through me that not even someone wise, who I thought would understand me, can tolerate my spiritual angst. "—I have a previous engagement."

"Oh, no problem. Thank you, sir." I make my way towards the door, one foot after another. And then for some reason I add, "I actually had a few more questions, but if you don't want. . ." The words fall out of my mouth clumsily, each one closer to a whisper than the last.

"Ginvera," he says suddenly, and I almost jump for some reason. I turn around to look at him, one of my hands still on the door. He makes eye contact.

"Anytime," he says delicately, almost exactly the same tone as he uses for sarcasm, unwavering black eyes pinning me neatly against the door.

Something inside me feels almost flattered, but not quite. Almost. . .

"Oh," I say, surprised a little at this sudden kindness. "Thank you."

I close the door behind me then, and I cannot be sure if it's only the door creaking shut that I hear or a very soft, "Don't."

I think of him at length.

He lingers in my sleep, a raven at the edge of my vision all in black. I think of him when I rise from bed, sliding out of bed and gasping as my bare feet touch the cold wood of the girl's dormitory. I think of him as I stand in the steamy light filtering in through the windowpanes in the shower, working shampoo into my hair mechanically, watching droplets of water roll down my skin.

I think of him as I get dressed, pulling my tights up over my legs and wondering if he ever thinks about women, or if he ever thinks of me. But why should he?

**Review?**

**I appreciate everyone who has already. You guys are awesome.**

**Lauren-The moment I hate more than any other moment?  
Me: *comes across amazing story* "This is fab!" *reads more* "This is marv!" *reads further* "THIS IS BRILLIANT!" *goes to look for next chapter and sees last update was two years ago* "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-"  
I don't plan on letting this die! :)**


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